


Flyover Country

by sistabro



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: spn_summergen, Gen, Pre-Canon, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistabro/pseuds/sistabro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No demon or creature hunts until Mary turns sixteen. That's the rule. Or at least it's supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flyover Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [counteragent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/gifts).



> Thank you, my most excellent betas [kalliel](http://kalliel.livejournal.com) and [vie_dangerouse](http://vie_dangerouse.livejournal.com). You were fantastic cheerleaders in addition to providing wonderful feedback. All remaining mistakes are my own.

"When a child first catches adults out -- when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just -- his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing."  
— John Steinbeck, _East of Eden_

 

 _Sunday, August 20, 1967_

The telephone rings, an explosion of sound in the afternoon quiet. Mary starts, fingers pressing deep dents into the pale bread. Half of her tomato lands on the plate with a wet plop.

She slowly reassembles her lunch as Dad gets up and walks behind her to answer the phone.

"Campbell residence."

Mary draws a smiley face with her finger in the pink, seedy tomato juice. Doesn't bother to hide that's she's eavesdropping. It could be a hunt after all.

"Hey there, Patty. You want to talk to Deanna?"

Not a hunt then, just Aunt Patty, probably wanting to blather on about little Sally again. Boring.

Mary picks up her sandwich and takes a bite, wonders if she can persuade Mom that it isn't too hot to bake cookies. She's been hankering for something sweet for days.

Dad taps her on the shoulder mid-chew. "Go get the atlas, kiddo."

The sandwich slides apart as it hits the plate, but she's already out the door before Mom can yell. She vaults over the couch and doesn't quite manage to slow down enough to avoid bumping into the wall when she skids around the corner into the hallway.

Like flipping a switch, the moment Mary crosses the threshold into Dad's study she slows down to glacial speeds, every move deliberate and measured. She spent so many years of her childhood in here struggling to sit still so she wouldn't be banished that it's habit now; it makes her feel like she's misbehaving if she moves too fast. Also, there was that one time when she knocked over a curse box. Never let it be said that she doesn't learn from her mistakes.

Even so, the atlas is right on top and it only takes her a moment to grab it and gently shut the door before she's racing off again. No couch hurdles this time, but she's still got enough speed that she smacks her hip against the table when she slides into the kitchen.

Mom glares, but doesn't scold, won't with Dad still on the phone scribbling away. Mary gives her her biggest, most unrepentant grin—which earns her a half-hearted swat—before tucking the book beneath one arm to clear the table. If she spots the pages with tomato juice, the smack she'd get would be with the full strength of her dad's arm behind it and well deserved, too. The second rule of hunting, after don't die, is to respect your tools, all of them, not just the weapons. And though she'd die before admitting it, of all the tools she's learned to wield, the atlas is her favorite.

She imagines maps are what the world looks like from an airplane, flat and neat and full of secrets hidden by clouds and distance. Sometimes when she can't sleep, Mary will flip through the pages and try to imagine what isn't drawn into the empty yellow squares, what buildings are contained in the black dots marking out civilization. If driving across the breadth of Kansas multiple times has taught her anything, it's that the empty places on the maps are never truly empty, nor are flat places ever truly flat. That said, someday she'd really like to see mountains, or even just hit up the Great Lakes. She's had more than her fill of fields and squat, small cities.

Unfortunately, Mary can tell immediately that the coordinates scribbled on the napkin Dad hands to her are close by, no more that half a day's drive at best. Her sigh of disappointment earns her a glare from Dad and a double tap on his left wrist: timing her, then. Right.

She sets the book down and pulls out one of the the cheap gas station maps Dad keeps tucked between the pages. The atlas falls open to Kansas of its own accord; another sure sign that they really should travel out of state more. It's a matter of moments for her to figure out the general area she needs to be looking at--northeast of Wichita--and then she closes the book, sets it aside carefully, and unfolds the map, laying it out like a table cloth.

Dad hangs up and hands her his pencil. Mary starts marking locations, fast as she can, fingers tracing out the fine black lines.

"What's going on?" Mom asks.

Dad snorts and sits back down at the table. "My brother's an idiot, that's what. Damn fool shoulda known better. Never was good with his hands. Hell, the only reason he can shoot straight is because Dad beat us if we didn't. Man became an accountant for--"

"Samuel," Mom says, a warning, and Dad's teeth click together. Mary can't help smiling a little; it's nice to know she's not the only one that jumps to when Mom uses that tone.

"Right. So apparently Sally wanted a tree house. And because they are determined to spoil that little girl rotten, Ed climbed up a tree this morning to build her one."

"Fell did he?"

Dad huffs out an annoyed half-laugh and Mary can practically hear his eyes rolling. "Damn straight he did. Broke his leg and is half out of his mind on painkillers to hear Patty tell it. Point being he was supposed to be taking care of a pack of werewolves tonight and that's obviously out of the question now. We're the only ones close enough to..."

"Fifteen miles northwest of Towanda," Mary supplies as she marks out the last set of coordinates. "Half hour away from Uncle Ed's, three hours from here."

Dad reaches up and musses her hair affectionately. "Good job, kiddo."

Mom taps the table for a moment. "Why don't we make it a long weekend? Help out Patty until Ed's not so strung out, take care of Mary's back-to-school shopping in Wichita, and come back on Tuesday? I'd rather not have to spend three hours in the car after chasing down were's all night. And I'm sure Patty wouldn't mind an extra hand with Sally. Mary can pitch in while we're out on the hunt."

"Mom!" Mary protests. Shopping is bad enough, but having to babysit, too?

Dad gives her a warning kick to the shin under the table. She bites her tongue and scribbles angry circles over their house on the map.

The chair creaks unhappily as Dad leans back. "Need to make some calls, but I think I can make that work."

"That's settled then. Mary, go put a bag together and make sure to leave room for new clothes. And don't make that face at me, young lady."

"If you are going to make me go shopping and babysit, can I at least go on the hunt first?"

"No," her parents say simultaneously.

"You know the rules, Mary," Dad continues. "No creatures or demons before you're sixteen. Now do as your mom says and no whining."

"Fine." She throws down the pencil and heads to her room to pack, making sure to slam the bedroom door behind her.

\+ + + + + + +

The drive is boring, exactly like every other time they've driven through Kansas in summer. Fields forever. Sometimes a small cluster of trees around some creek or pond, but mostly just golden grasses, green corn, barbed wire fences, and a hazy, hot sky. She holds her hand outside the window most of the way, flat and angled to ride the wind. Wishes that it was a wing instead and could lift her up and up and up until the car was nothing more than a shiny dot on the black line of the road.

The rough center of the coordinates where last month's attacks took place lies in what is probably a corn field, a fair distance from the highway. Still, it's more on the way to Uncle Ed's than not and Dad wants to get the lay of the land while the sun's still up before heading out to drop her off and pick up bait.

Mary's not stupid. She understands that there isn't a lot of time and it's important to be as prepared as possible—rule number three of hunting and all. But that doesn't stop the resentment from worming around in her belly. Because she knows what Dad is going to do; it was obvious when he told her to put on jeans before they left. He's going to make her plan the hunt as a training exercise. Which is complete bullshit. Because if she's old enough to plan the hunt, how is she not old enough to be a part of it? It's not like she isn't a good shot, better than cousin Billy, for all that he's sixteen. What difference are three years going to make? It's bullshit, is what it is.

Still, when the car finally comes to a stop in the middle of rutted track surrounded by cornfields, she's got the map, compass, pencils, binoculars, water and snacks packed in her backpack. Slides the her little Colt Cobra into her ankle holster and gets out of the car.

Dad pulls her in for a noogie as soon as she's within reach. "All right, kiddo. This part's all you. Lay out this hunt and show me what you've got."

Mary jabs him in the ribs with her elbow and steps on his instep to make him let go. She dances out of reach amidst a flurry of swearing and Mom's laughter. It makes her feel a little better and she heads out into the fields with Mom by her side, smiling as Dad curses and limps behind them.

\+ + + + + + +

The sun is only a few degrees from kissing the horizon when they finally make it back to the car. They left all the windows rolled down, but when Mary opens the door, the heat pulses out like it's an oven instead of a car. With a sigh, she climbs in and tries not to burn her hands on the door handle. Hopes they'll pass someplace that sells ice cream on the way to Uncle Ed's.

The setting sun is shining right in her face. She closes her eyes, tries not to notice the dribble of sweat running between her breasts. The front car doors slam. The keys jangle as Dad slides them into the ignition. She waits for the car to start, but there is just more dull chiming from the keys.

"Fuck," Dad says.

Mary opens her eyes in time to see him slap the steering wheel in frustration, watch him try and fail to start the car again. The tirade goes on for at least a couple of minutes and it takes every ounce of self control Mary has not to smile. Looks like maybe she'll be in on this hunt after all.

\+ + + + + + +

Three hours later, Mary is desperately wishing she was at Uncle Ed and Aunt Patty's reading bedtime stories to their little brat.

Instead of letting her participate and be useful, she has been locked inside the car—her Colt Cobra loaded with silver, just in case—and ordered not to move one inch _or else._

She might get a whipping for it because Dad does not fuck around when it comes to obeying orders on a hunt, but it was crack the back windows or pass out. It's a calculated risk. Werewolves can smell you from miles away if the breeze is right; God knows she's ripe after an entire day hiking through corn fields and being slowly roasted alive in the car. But Mary saw the silver knife Dad tucked into his duffel, knows that he's been dripping blood for at least an hour now because it's not like they had anything else to use as bait. She figures the smell of blood has got be way more appealing to something that likes to eat human hearts than stinky teenager. Besides, she'll get the belt for sure if Dad finds her passed out and defenseless in the car.

Passing out may still be a risk anyways. So far Mary's pretty sure the only relief from the stuffy heat she's gained by opening the windows is entirely in her head. Another river of sweat runs down her shoulders to join lake of it pooling in the small of her back.

"I'm melting! I'm melting!" Mary impulsively croaks out and immediately claps a hand over her mouth, startled by how loud her voice is in the quiet. Outside the crickets fall silent.

When nothing immediately jumps out of the dark, Mary slumps back against the door and mentally declares herself an idiot. Closes her eyes and tries to pretend she's sitting on top of a snow capped mountain with the faint hope it will make her feel cooler.

Mary's somewhere in the Rockies during a heat wave when the door she's leaning against is hit so hard the entire car rocks. With a startled shriek, she throws herself across the seat. Tries to spin around on the vinyl but she sticks and ends up in the foot well. Shoulder jammed against the front seat, she awkwardly raises her gun, flicking the safety off.

Pressed up against the window is a boy, bleach blond hair practically glowing in the moonlight. Even with the deep shadows painted on his face, Mary can tell he's cute, only a little older than herself. She lowers the gun automatically: don't point a loaded weapon at people, gun safety rule number one.

"What the hell!" Mary yells, furious and shaking, heart lodged somewhere behind her tonsils.

He rears back suddenly and smashes against the window, lips curling into a snarl.

The transformation from cute boy to beast is so shocking, so fast, that she freezes, mind caught in a stutter. He leans back a little while Mary stares, transfixed. Licks his lips and smiles wide in a madman's grin.

It takes the car rocking hard enough to wedge her further into the foot well to get her moving again. Because the werewolf Mary's been having a staring contest with didn't move. The car was shoved from _behind her._

Apparently, werewolves really do travel in packs.

The young one in front of her gets in on the action again and soon the car is pitching back and forth like a ship at sea. Behind her comes the sound of cracking glass.

With an effort, she forces her limbs to unlock from their panicked freeze. But whatever grace Mary thought she possessed has deserted her. Her body is clumsy and leaden, slow as death. The noise of splintering glass is the tick of a bomb counting down.

 _crunch_

She plants her foot on the floor, her elbow on the hot vinyl—

 _crunch_

—pushes up and back until she's up on the seat—

 _CRASH_

—twists around and brings her arm up, finger on the trigger. Flash of a face coming towards her, terrible teeth and inhuman eyes.

She fires.

The sound hits Mary like a blow, stuns her enough that she lets the recoil throw her back against the seat. Warm blood spatters across her skin. A thousand bells start ringing in her head, discordant and deafening.

Mary tilts her head back and sees the young werewolf's mouth is open in an almost comic 'oh' of surprise. Watches surprise give way to grief and rage.

Time to move if she doesn't want to die in this damn car.

She surges upright, uses her forward momentum to shove the bloody head and shoulders of the dead werewolf out of the window and throw herself out after it.

Her bare forearms hit the gravel first, rocks and sand shredding her skin, burning wet, hot trails of pain down her arms. She keeps her hands locked around the gun, finger near the trigger, and forces her body to roll. Slides to a stop on her back.

The full moon in her face is blinding after the dark car and she can hear nothing but ringing in her ears. Her training saves her, Daddy's voice reminding her that sometimes even a glancing hit can save your life, buy you the time you need for a kill shot.

Mary raises the snub-nosed pistol and fires wildly into the night.

The werewolf crashes down on top of her in a tangle of limbs. He's twice her weight, but panic lends her strength and Mary rolls him off her with one desperate shove.

She's halfway to her knees when his face turns towards her. Their eyes meet, his now as human as hers and absolutely terrified. She freezes, transfixed as he opens him mouth, teeth now as dull and square as her own, and speaks: _Help me._

Deaf though she is, the words are as clear as the tears running down his cheeks. Over and over again. _Help me, please, help me._

 _Shoot him,_ Dad's voice counters in her head. _Shoot him right in the heart. Only way to put down a shape shifter, you know that._

But he's just a boy. A lost, frightened boy bleeding under the moonlight now that the silver in his blood has driven the monster back into hiding. Training never covered this, that the monster could be an innocent, too.

Mary reaches out with a trembling hand and brushes it against his cheek. Leans over him and holds his gaze, murmured nothings tumbling from her lips unheard as she slowly slides the gun up until the muzzle hovers above his heart.

"I'm sorry," Mary whispers. Keeps her eyes on his as she pulls the trigger.

\+ + + + + + +

Mary has been watching the tops of the corn move for the past few minutes from her perch on the roof of the car. Closer, closer, she follows the line of movement with her gun, keeping just the slightest bit ahead of it like she was taught.

When Dad bursts through the corn at a run, she nearly shoots him in the heart. Recognition comes a second before she squeezes the trigger and Mary throws her hands up, sends the bullet off harmlessly into the night.

She freezes, posed to gun down the moon, immobilized by the horror of nearly killing her father.

Warm, familiar arms wrap around her and Mary's muscles turn to water. Her arms drop—only training keeping the gun in her hand. She turns and collapses into her father's embrace.

Eventually, she manages to bring her shaking limbs back under control, drag her thoughts out from under the numbing blanket of shock. Reminding herself that she's thirteen, not five, Mary forces her fingers to let go of her Dad's shirt and leans away from him until he gets the hint and lets her go.

Mary misses the safety of his embrace almost immediately. She forces herself to keep her distance, takes a few deep breaths, staring at her bloody sneakers. When she's mostly positive that she won't burst into tears at the sight of him, she looks up at her Dad and finds him staring at her with a proud, relieved smile plastered across his face.

"You did good, kiddo," Dad says, voice oddly flat when filtered through the residual ringing in her ears.

His eyes flick to the body of the boy splayed out in the road below them. "Remembered your training," he says, still smiling. "Shot him in the heart, just like you're supposed to."

Mary goes cold with horror, then hot with rage. For an instant she want nothing more than to punch the smile off her father's face.

Shame stops her. All she's ever wanted was to be a hunter, to make her father proud, to be found worthy of the Campbell legacy. She should happy that she's done well, but all she wants to do it run away. She's a coward. A failure. Nothing more than another weak girl like Aunt Patty, unable to really handle the life.

Mary opens her mouth to confess, to tell her father she doesn't deserve his praise. But the thought of how he would look at her afterward, disappointed and ashamed, stops the words in her throat.

"Yeah," Mary finds herself saying instead, mouth tasting of ashes and lies. "Shot him in the heart. Just like you taught me."


End file.
